Good saddle horses could be bought by the carload for fifty dollars a head about that time, but there never was no set price on a good cowhorse, and as a rule that kind can’t be bought unless an outfit is selling out. The biggest price that was ever heard offered in that country for any cowhorse had never went over two hundred, and when rumors spread around that four hundred had been offered for Smoky many figgered that whoever offered it had a lot of money to spend;—but them who figgered that way had never seen Smoky work.
Old Tom came up to Clint that fall after the wagon had pulled in, and showed him the letter offering the four hundred. Clint had heard about the offer and he just stargazed at the letter, not reading;—instead he was doing some tall wondering at what Old Tom was going to do about it. He was still stargazing and sort of waiting for the blow to fall, when he felt the old cowman’s hand on his shoulder, and then heard him say:
“Well, Clint, I’ll tell you”—then Old Tom waited a while, maybe just to sort of aggravate the cowboy, but finally he went on—“if my cattle was starving, and I needed the money to buy feed to pull ’em thru with, I might sacrifice Smoky for four hundred, but as things are now there’s no money can buy that horse.”
The cowboy smiled, took a long breath, and grabbed the paw the old man was holding for him to shake.
“But I’m hoping,” resumed Old Tom, “that some day soon you’ll get to hankering to drift to some other country and quit this outfit, so I can get Smoky for myself; I’d fired you long ago, only I’d have to fire Jeff too, and somehow I’d rather get along without the horse till one of you highbinders quit.”
Clint had kept a smiling all the while the old man was speaking, then he gave his hand another shake and walked away. He knowed Old Tom had said that last just to hear how his voice sounded.
As usual, Smoky was turned out on the range along with the remuda for that winter. Clint had helped haze ’em to the breaks as he’d always done, and noticed as he stopped and let the ponies graze and scatter that the feed was mighty short and scarcer than he’d ever seen it. The whole summer had been mighty dry and the range short on grass, but this little scope of country that was the saddle horse range had always been good, and the ponies had always wintered there better than if they’d been in a warm stable and fed grain.
Clint thought some of taking Smoky back with him and keeping him up for a winter horse, but then he’d have to turn him out when spring works came on, and the cowboy didn’t want to think of going out on spring roundup without his “top horse.”
“No,” he decided, “I’m going to let you run out this winter, but I’ll be out to see how you’re making it and don’t lose too much tallow. You’re getting to be too valuable a horse to take any chances of losing,” he says to him as he scratched him back of the ear—“but,” he went on, “you’re not half as valuable to the outfit as you are to me, old pony, even though Old Tom won’t consider no price on you.”
Clint was on his way back and had no more than got sight of the buildings of the ranch when Old White Winter hit him from behind and made him clap his gloved hands over his ears.
“Holy smoke,” he whistled thru his chattering teeth, “she’s sure starting ferocious.”
And she had—the first initiating blizzard of the season was more than just a snowstorm with a wind, it was a full grown blizzard drifting over the country, covering up the feed with packed snow, and freezing things up. It kept up for two days and nights, and as it cleared up, the thermometer went down. The next day Clint was busy bringing in old stock closer to the ranch and where they could be watched, and as another blizzard hit the country again a few days later that cowboy was kept on the jump bringing under the sheds and next to the haystacks all the stock he’d hunted up.
Clint was in the saddle all day every day, and sometimes away into the night. A month went by and in that time two feet of snow had accumulated on the range;—more was threatening to come, and all the cowboys that was kept on the Rocking R payroll more than had their hands full. The ranch hands would roll up their eyes at every bunch of stock the riders brought in to be fed, for as they figgered they already had all they could handle, and if this kept up, Old Tom would have to hire more hay shovelers and buy more hay.
Clint had worried some about Smoky and figgered to hunt him up sometime, but as on account of the deep snow he couldn’t get his horse out of a walk, he never could make it. Besides there was always a bunch of cattle somewheres on the way, and amongst ’em there’d be a few that needed bringing in.
But with all them drawbacks, Clint finally reached Smoky’s range late one day. The gray sky was getting darker, and night was coming on as the cowboy topped a ridge and spotted a bunch of ponies. Amongst the bunch was a long-haired, shaggy-looking, and lean mouse colored horse, and Clint could hardly believe
